


The Band Still Plays On

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Gift Fic, M/M, POV Third Person Limited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 14:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2777267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser and Ray in a bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Band Still Plays On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ButterflyGhost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/gifts).



> Can certainly be read as pre-slash but I don't think you have to read it that way.

It is very late at night, and we have had a long and wearing week, and you have been snapping at me all day, but only because you’re as miserable as I am about the deaths and our lack of progress in bringing their perpetrator to justice. And despite all of this, or perhaps because of it, I couldn’t bear to leave your side when we knocked off work. And you didn’t drive me home before stopping off at this bar, as if you knew that I would follow you into this place where I don’t belong. As if you needed me to do so. So, here we sit, both of us exhausted and you well on your way to being drunk, to boot. I, increasingly silent, watchful; you, increasingly boisterous, challenging.  
  
“C’mon, for Chrissakes, Fraser, what harm can one drink do you? One drink, so you can say you’ve tried it, once before you die.”  
  
And perhaps because I am tired, and my worry for you is a queasy knot in my stomach, and the night seems dark and cold although it’s only October—for once in my life, I answer this question frankly.  
  
“I said I _don’t_ drink; I never said I never _have._ ”  
  
That shuts you up for a moment, as I suspected it would. You frown into my face, puzzling out the sense of what I’ve just said.  
  
“You’ve drunk before? Alcohol? Like, not just a sip of wine? A real drink?”  
  
You expect me to be playing with words, exploiting logical loopholes. It’s a natural assumption.  
  
“Yes, Ray. I used to drink alcohol. I used to get drunk.”  
  
Your wide-eyed expression would be comical if it weren’t insulting. And if the sloppy, slow exaggeration of your least movements didn’t make my stomach churn coldly.  
  
You lean forward across the table to peer at me with a frown of concentration. You’re not so very inebriated, after all; your thoughts may have slowed but you can still reason. I clutch the edge of the table, sit still, and let you look.  
  
“But now you don’t.”  
  
“But now I don’t,” I agree.  
  
“Something happened.” It’s the obvious inference; why else do people change their habits? But then you add, “But not to you. To someone else?”  
  
You sound so sure; I wonder why. Do you know me so well, to judge with certainty that I wouldn’t have let myself lose control badly enough to hurt my career, reputation, friends, self? Or are you blinded by the image of the man you want to believe me?  
  
Either way, you’re right, of course.  
  
“He slipped into a coma. I was lying right there beside him. I was able to keep him from choking, but I couldn’t. . .there was nothing. . .I was kneeling in the wet grass, trying to argue with the bastard, telling him he couldn’t just. . .”  
  
I choke on the words. Your hand covers my fist where it trembles on the table between us. Warm, callused skin against mine.  
  
“But he did.”  
  
“Yes,” I whisper. My voice sounds like I’ve been smoking (something I really never _have_ tried). “He did.” I take a breath and say the words I’ve never said aloud before. “He died. Steven Ross died of alcohol poisoning, and I stood by and let it happen.”  
  
My hand is cradled in both of yours, now.  
  
“I’m sorry.” You’re making an effort to speak clearly, to sound sober, but you can’t completely erase the signs. Your warm breath blows the scent of whiskey into my face. I flinch, turning my cheek, swallowing down nausea and hot shards of craving.  
  
You recoil. You let go of my hand to scrub both of yours over your face.  
  
“Sorry, sorry,” you mumble into your hands. “I’m a pig.”  
  
You dig in your jacket pocket, your face uncovered now, your eyes on my face again but not quite meeting mine. You hold out your keys across the table.  
  
“Look, drive yourself home, all right? I’ll get a cab.”  
  
I can’t keep from flinching at that, either, and God bless you, half-drunk as you are, you’re on your feet before I can move, with your hand on my shoulder.  
  
“No, I didn’t mean—not like that—I just thought, I’m making you uncomfortable, you shouldn’t have to—aw, c’mon, Frase, c’mere. . .”  
  
Somehow I’m on my feet and you’re hugging me against your chest. I can feel your heart beating, warm and alive, through the layers of wool and cotton that separate us. I wrap my arms around you and feel your ribs expand and contract with each breath you take; the heat coming off your cheek an inch or two away from mine; the minute shift of your weight as we stand there, hanging onto each other. This close, other scents fight with the reek of alcohol: leather and sweat and old, faint cigarettes; antiperspirant and engine grease and hair products and gunmetal. Nothing could be more tangible, more real.  
  
“I won’t,” you say softly. “If it bothers you, I won’t any more. I didn’t know.”  
  
You say it as though it’s nothing, a trivial change. I know from experience that it’s anything but. But for the moment, at the end of a grueling day, with the prospect of another to come, held in the comforting embrace of a friend who is alive and well despite the myriad dangers of our lives—for now, I nod and let myself believe.  
  
  
\---------------  
  
 _‘Til the end, he passed out on the_  
Sundeck that morning  
Quietly saying goodbye  
But I was so hammered I sputtered and stammered  
Told him he couldn't just die  
He was a rock  
Went straight for his own armegeddon  
Face froze in a grin  
Ambulance flying in, I never drank again  
Can't really call that a loss or a win  
  
 _The Drinking Song_ , Moxy Früvous  
  


**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I believe Fraser’s canonical non-drinking is makes sense with no further explanation than we get in canon (in my world, people who choose not to drink either on principle or because they don’t care for it are common). But here in the sandbox of fic, I’m sometimes intrigued by the idea that Fraser doesn’t drink For A Reason. I was inspired by a passing reference to Fraser’s past experience with drinking in one of your [BG]’s recent fics to revisit an old idea of writing a fic about Fraser, and this song. And you asked for angst! :)


End file.
